


Something Beyond Fury

by cathedralvelvet



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Choking, Doggy Style, Everyone is an adult but still heads up, F/M, FaceFucking, Incest, Oral Sex, Parent/Child Incest, Prostitution, impregnation risk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:35:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24632413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathedralvelvet/pseuds/cathedralvelvet
Summary: Dorothea has hated her father for a long time, ever since he cast her mother aside for not giving him the crest-bearing child he wanted.  She lived on the streets because of him.  She had to claw her way up to success without his support.One night, she realizes that the man flirting with her is almost certainly her father.The night only gets worse from there.(Incest.  Prostitution.  Daddy kink.Incest.)  (Seriously, you have been warned.)
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Dorothea Arnault's Father
Comments: 1
Kudos: 68





	Something Beyond Fury

**Author's Note:**

> Commissioned by NidoranDuran.

It had tickled at the back of Dorothea’s mind for nearly an hour, ever since the end of the night’s concert. It had nudged at her thoughts while she chatted and mingled with some of the noblemen who had been attending her performances regularly. It had disturbed her usual inner calm as she rode to a party at one of their homes in one of the richly furnished carriages that the men had taken to the opera house in the first place.    
  
The feeling had plagued her and plagued her, from the moment she saw one of their faces minutes after walking offstage, to when she had retreated to the kitchen -- the party by then mostly having wound down -- and heard one of their voices from an adjoining room.    
  
It was a knot of noblemen, and she couldn’t see the face of the man speaking, just his close-cropped, reddish brown hair and the movements of his jaw as he spoke. “Oh, I’ve been in the same place, believe me,” he said, giving his half-emptied glass of wine a little shake so that the violet liquid inside swirled. “I tried with a maid once, when I was younger.” Some of the other nobles, all middle-aged, made commiserating noises, but none stopped him as he continued, “Of course, the coarse-blooded bitch was a good enough feel, but when she finally bore me a child, the brat didn’t have a crest. I let her go as soon as that was a sure thing, believe me.”   
  
“Oh?” one of the men said, while the rest reacted as though the man had said nothing of particular import. And as Dorothea stood stock still in the kitchen, hidden from view, the stem of her own glass broken between her fingers. “You didn’t provide for her after?” he continued, but there was no accusation in his tone. No anger. He mostly sounded curious.   
  
“What, for some baseborn whore and her spawn? Please.” The man with the reddish brown hair -- the man whose very voice seemed to be dislodging vague memories Dorothea shouldn’t have had -- drank the remainder of his wine in one tilt of the glass. A moment later he threw it absently to the floor. Dorothea immediately surmised, through the rising bloodlust choking her mind and her vision, that this was his house. His home. He wouldn’t have shown that kind of disregard in someone else’s, if they were there to see it. “The child lived here, and the woman didn’t even have to work for her board, for, what, a year? Perhaps longer? This must have been decades ago, or nearly, but I’m sure it was at least a year. The woman didn’t even complain.”   
  
Dorothea continued to stand as still as a statue as the conversation turned elsewhere, and as the group continued to walk -- away from the kitchen, thankfully -- she didn’t exactly think, so much as thoughts broke upon her mind like waves.    
  
The man -- her father? She couldn’t be sure, she couldn’t be certain, but something bone-deep told her that he was -- had said that her mother hadn’t complained, and Dorothea thought he was right. Her mother had never complained of him, for the short time that Dorothea had been old enough to really remember anything her mother had said, and her mother had still lived. She had sounded sad whenever she spoke of Dorothea’s nobleman father, but if she had laid any blame at all, it had been at her own feet.    
  
“I’m sorry, Dory,” she remembered her mother saying weakly, struggling against her own tears even as Dorothea herself let her own flow freely. “If I could have given him what he wanted, maybe...maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” She had been in pain when she went. “Or if it did, you...you wouldn’t be alone, after.”   
  
Dorothea’s blood was pounding in her ears. She had never, in all her life, been this angry.    
  
She couldn’t remember ever having wanted another person to die, before this. But now...now…   
  
Dorothea wanted to crush the remains of her glass in her hand, and make him swallow the glass along with the precious crest-bearing blood that had mattered to him so much --   
  
“Oh, you can just leave that on the counter somewhere,” said a voice from behind. Dorothea jumped; she wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but she still knew that voice. “I have a maid that deals with that sort of thing.”   
  
His words didn’t help with her anger, but years of practice at wearing a false face on stage regardless of how she really felt -- years of never letting her voice falter -- helped her keep the mask on as she looked up at him. “Oh! Right. I came in here to get rid of this, but then I guess I got...lost in my own thoughts!” She laughed, her fakest laugh, a tinkling sound that only nobles were fake enough to take at face value.    
  
When she lifted her hand and lowered the glass and its base to the kitchen counter, his hand settled over her own in an instant, the middle-aged man with hair only a shade off from her own moving deceptively fast, for all his muscle and the broadness of his shoulders. “Were you thinking about my offer from before, then?” he said, his voice confident in the way only noblemen could manage, from getting everything they wanted so reliably. “You can’t have not noticed that the rest of the opera house girls already made their way home with the other men.” His hand slid to cover even more of her own, and Dorothea shuddered. It felt like a violation. “And yet, you’re still here. Which means all that thinking must have borne the right fruit.”   
  
It took Dorothea a long moment to realize what the man was saying, but then she lost the battle to keep her face from going utterly red. She had held her own against her rising anger, but this was a different feeling.    
  
At her last show, nearly a week ago, the man had cornered her backstage after she had turned down one of his companions’ offers to join a similar party to this one, at their own palace on the other side of town. That night, Dorothea had refused, citing her exhaustion after three consecutive nights performing on the stage. In reality, she had still been too uncomfortable in the wake of another party -- one that had turned into something only just short of an orgy -- to go to another so soon.    
  
When she had given her refusal, the man offering had taken it well, but this one -- a man she was now almost certain was her own father -- had peeled away from the rest of the group and all but pinned her to the wall with his muscular bulk. He had told her that her singing voice was exquisite, but that he had little doubt that her lips could be put to a better use. Only then, before she’d had time to react, did he follow the others outside.   
  
If she had realized that tonight’s party was to take place at his home, she wouldn’t have come. Or perhaps she would have. It had taken her weeks to work up the courage to follow the other singers’ example and go to her first “party” at a patron’s mansion, after all, and while the sheer excess of last week’s had shocked her too much for her to...participate, she was too invested in her future to stay away from similar engagements.    
  
Dorothea looked down at the large hand pressed so firmly down on her own. It gave her an excuse not to look at the man’s face. She was terrified that if she looked at him now, she would see bits of herself in his appearance. “Goddess,” she couldn’t help but say aloud.    
  
“Are you nervous? Don’t be.” The man lifted his hand from hers, but only to swing it low and --   
  
Dorothea bit down hard on her lip as the man seized her by the ass in one hand, then pulled her close enough that she had no trouble at all feeling his erection against her. She felt her face go hotter, felt her chest take up a faster drumbeat than she wanted to feel, here, with this man. She kept her eyes on his chest as he moved to pin her against the counter. The movement only let her feel more of him, more of his size and heat.    
  
“Have you taken payment before, or is this your first time?” he asked.   
  
She hadn’t even said yes to this. She wasn’t even looking him in the eyes, and he was jumping straight to this. Dorothea tried to think, but it was like moving through water. Or honey. She was too angry, too hot. She hated this, hated him. “I haven’t,” she said thickly, unable to keep her eyes from looking down at the visible bulge in his trousers.    
  
He said a number, and even with the context it took her a moment to realize that he was offering her a price. It was more than she had made in three months at the opera. Several times that. “For tonight,” he clarified, and Dorothea bit her lip as he rocked against her. “And if I’m too much for you,” he said, another rock of his hips adding a bit of extra definition to his words, “you can leave as early as you like, and keep it all.”   
  
This was her father. She hated this man. She wanted to dash the remnants of the glass in her hand and shove the biggest piece she could find through his throat.    
  
He was offering her a fortune.    
  
O O O    
  
Dorothea was on her knees. The carpet was thick. Rich. She had slept in beds less comfortable than this, living on the streets. When she had been able to sleep in a bed at all.    
  
The man sitting in the chair in front of her, his legs outspread, was the reason she had lived on the streets at all.    
  
And his cock was mere inches from Dorothea’s hopelessly flushed face.   
  
“You seemed so reserved in the kitchen, but now I can see that you're quite the kinky little minx," the the man said. Dorothea was trying with everything she had not to think of him as her father. "You look fetching even with the blindfold, you know. It only emphasizes that pretty mouth of yours even further."   
  
She had proposed it out of a kind of sick desperation. Above all else, she had wanted to avoid looking at this man's face. She had seen it before, it was already burned into her memory, but she didn't want to have to look at him anymore. She knew, somehow, that she wouldn't be able to do this if she could see him.   
  
Dorothea needed this money.    
  
She told herself that, ignoring the hot, sick thrill bubbling up inside her, boiling through her body from her veins outward. She was doing this for the money. She was doing this out of greed. This was even a kind of revenge, taking back what she had originally been owed as this man's -- his --   
  
Dorothea's thoughts were wrenched away from that fatal course when the man continued, “And I'm sure you won't have any trouble finding your mark. I'm sure you can feel me burning for you."   
  
The worst of it was, he wasn't wrong. This close, Dorothea could almost feel the heat of him against her face. She shifted closer on her knees, until she felt his hot skin against the side of her face. She took a harsh, inward breath at the sensation. She felt heat pool in her belly. Felt heat lower.    
  
She was already wet. She wasn't so deep in denial that she could ignore that.    
  
"Show me just how skilled those lips of yours are, songstress," the man said, shifting in his chair. The slight change of posture ground his cock up against her face even further. The scent of him was overwhelming -- he wasn't foul or smelly, but there was still the scent of sweat, and of his precum forming at the head of his shaft.    
  
She pushed her lips against him, letting them slide for a moment, up the underside of his cock until her lips pressed wetly against the head of his shaft.   
  
"Mmh." The man groaned, slouching lower in his chair as Dorothea took the head of his cock between his lips. She felt one of his hands settle on her head, and for an instant, Dorothea froze in place. It was harder for her to forget who she was servicing when there was another point of contact between them. A point like this, in particular. It was easier if she was just sucking an anonymous cock.   
  
But as his fingers slid through her hair, caressing her scalp, Dorothea realized that she wasn't going to have the luxury of simply forgetting who this was entirely. She wanted to have that leeway, but it seemed he didn't want to give it to her.   
  
None of which stopped her from pulling back, from letting the hot head of his shaft pop free from her lips. In fact, after that moment of frozen, horrified hesitation, she let her head push further forward, taking more of him into her mouth.    
  
"I wonder how many cocks you've sucked," the man said, his voice rich with the pleasure he was feeling, as well as with a certain sense of...superiority. Like he was gloating over where he had her, of the fact that she had ended up on her knees for him after all. "Mmh, that's good," he said, as after taking another few inches of his burly shaft past her lips, she finally did pull back somewhat, beginning to bob her head up and down his shaft. "Even without the blindfold, you wouldn't be able to see just how much you resemble a common whore."   
  
"Nmmph," she whined. How was she supposed to respond, with his cock filling her mouth with its sheer girth, and his hand resting so insistently on the back of her head. She wanted to glare, but the blindfold was in her way. Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea after all.    
  
"Is this even your first time taking cock for money, slut?" the man said. His fingers squeezed at her scalp -- not to hurt, but in a possessive way, one that Dorothea wished desperately that a part of her didn't relish.    
  
So many of the choices Dorothea had made had been purely for the sake of ensuring that she would never, ever be on the streets again. She had done anything for shelter as she grew up, and she had done everything that anyone had asked of her to get the training she needed for the opera, and then into Mittelfrank Opera House itself. This was far from the first time she had debased herself.    
  
But, as she sucked the cock of the man whose fault all that was, she couldn't help but find a twisted sense of comfort in that hand on her head. In the feeling of being kept. Kept secure, kept safe. Kept in her place.    
  
It was wrong. It was so wrong, so why...   
  
Why was she so utterly soaked?   
  
She began to bob her head faster. Her mouth and chin were messy with saliva that she could feel on her skin, that she knew the man could see. Did she look as disgusting as she felt? Did she look quite as much like a whore as she felt she was? Her movements turned sloppy, and she let her mouth loosen a little from its vacuum suction around his shaft. Soon there was saliva coating every inch of his cock, running down his balls, and her every movement was making lewd, wet sounds as she bobbed her head again, and again, and again...   
  
"It can't possibly be," the man finally said in a conclusive tone. "Goddess, you're too good at this. You might well earn your pay with naught but the work you're doing with your mouth, you perfect...little...! Slut!" With the last three words, he began to buck his hips, driving his cock up into Dorothea's mouth, fucking her lips in a way she wasn't even remotely prepared for. In the same moment, his hand tightened on her scalp, seizing her by the head and pushing her down to meet those same thrusts.    
  
It sent her mind skittering off key, completely undid her self-control. As his cock drove past her lips with greater speed -- as he took the reins and changed the pace of what was happening to suit his own desires -- Dorothea found herself surrendering completely to it.    
  
Because it felt good to.   
  
"Do you like the sound of that? You don't have to do anything else at all tonight to get the reward you have coming to you, whore." He fucked her mouth again and again, thrusting against her with brutal strokes. "But if you want to do even more, I can pay you twice as much as I was planning to. Do you want that? Make a sound, anything, and I'll let you earn even more coin. But only because you're such a skilled cocksucker."   
  
Dorothea should have had the strength to remain silent at the man's words. It was taking more and more mental discipline to keep thinking of him as simply "that man," as some twisted part of her, deep inside, relished being kept this way. Used this way. It was taking everything she had not to lose herself to moaning around the man's cock, to keep from lowering her hands to her cunt and playing with herself even as she sucked off her own father.   
  
It was taking so much of Dorothea's control not to lose herself completely, so surely she didn't need to be ashamed of letting out a little moan at the man's words, as she continued to fuck her face?    
  
The way the man laughed -- at her, there was no denying that -- scrapped any hope that Dorothea had clung to, of coming out of this unashamed, with her pride intact. "Good girl. You're such a good girl. Just keep sucking my cock for that money you're so desperate for, you f-fucking whore..."   
  
Dorothea was glad for the blindfold again. She had been so desperate not to see him, but now Dorothea was grateful that he couldn't see past the strip of black cloth. That he couldn't see the way her eyes rolled back at those words, the way she only grew hotter and wetter at being called a 'good girl.'    
  
A good girl for her father, some sick, traitorous part of her thought, glorying in the wrongness of it. Unable to stop herself, Dorothea finally let her hand snake down to rub at herself through her panties.   
  
"Oh, absolutely not," the man said, and to Dorothea's shock, she felt his hand bunch up in her hair before yanking her up and away from her cock. As she gasped raggedly for air, she felt his cock slap against her face. "No touching yourself down there, you impatient little slut," the man chided. With one hand in her hair and the other around the base of his cock, he continued to slap her one way and then another with his shaft, leaving streaks of wetness across her face, again and again. "You'll get your relief soon enough, but for now you need to put your hands where I can see them. Come on. Don't make me wait," he said, his voice growing harsh, "or I'll send you home with your original pay, and you won't get the bonus or what you so obviously crave for later."   
  
Her pulse pounding in her ears, Dorothea could only continue to breathe for a few moments, until she finally reached up with both hands and placed them on his thighs.    
  
She was so close, some part of her pleaded internally. She felt like all it would take was the faintest touch, the briefest brush of her thumb to send her to climax. That was how much she had been getting off on this. That was what sucking her father's cock was doing to her.    
  
"For how bad you've been, I'm not even going to let you finish me off with your mouth. And I know you want to." She heard a fleshy sound, something wet and rhythmic, and it took her no time at all to realize that he was jerking himself off, only inches from her face. The worst thing was, she really did want to lean in and take his cock past her lips again. It was sick. She was sick. "You just keep that naughty mouth of yours open, and I'll give you the load you worked so hard to earn from me, until you decided to be bad."   
  
It was as clear as anyone could have expected it to be. The man was going to cum on her face. He was going to blow his load all over her. She could tell, somehow, from the way the pace of his hand kept getting quicker, that he was incredibly close. He was going to cum.   
  
Her father was going to cum. Her father was going to spurt the same filthy nobleman seed he had used to knock up her mother all over Dorothea.   
  
So why wasn't she closing her mouth?   
  
Why was Dorothea parting her lips as wide as she could manage, letting her tongue loll out past her lower lip?    
  
Dorothea didn’t have time to think about that -- didn’t have time, in fact, to think at all -- before her father came.   
  
The first spurt of his cum took her full in the face, and once again Dorothea had reason to be grateful for the blindfold that she had been so desperate to wear. A messy streak took her from her chin and directly across one eye, and she knew that that would have stung like a bastard if it had caught her unawares. But then she stopped thinking about hypotheticals entirely, as another spurt caught her entirely in the mouth, utterly coating her tongue in one go. And another. Even as he continued to stroke himself, the man must have been aiming with that hand, and soon she felt his other hand yank her forward by the hair to get her mouth even closer to him, because soon every last one of the spurts of cum that escaped his cock entered her mouth, filling it to the point where Dorothea finally felt like she had to shut her mouth lest it overflow all over her.   
  
Again, there was a moment where she should have stopped and thought. Where if she had thought about what she was doing, she wouldn't have done it. A moment where she might have reflected on how utterly vile the man in front of her was, and on whether she really wanted to swallow his load so eagerly.   
  
But she wasn't thinking at all. Dorothea was living in the moment without a thought in her head, and pure, raw instinct drove her to swallow his entire hot load with a moment's effort, and to then open her mouth again, gasping for hair before letting her tongue loll out again, this time to lick up the cum around her mouth from when her father had continued to cum while her lips were sealed. And then he wasn't cumming at all.   
  
"Goddess, I almost don't want to let you leave," the man groaned. A moment later, she felt him take his cock and begin to rub its cum-slathered length all over her face, smearing even more of his spunk across her skin. "I just want to keep you here as the perfect little fuck-pet you clearly want to be. But we only have tonight, so I'll have to get what pleasure I can out of you."    
  
O O O   
  
Dorothea cried out as she hit the bed.    
  
She hadn't had any time to react, when the man had released her hair to instead cup her by the chin. Even cock-drunk and unstrung by what had just happened -- by what she had just done -- Dorothea had still felt a rising disgust at the strange tenderness in that motion. She didn't want to be treated like a lover by this man. She wanted him to use her, to keep her like some servile slut in the palm of his hand, to take his money and be treated like the whore that made her.    
  
Deep down, Dorothea wanted to be treated just as badly as he had treated her mother.   
  
But any tenderness she might have been disgusted by didn't last long, because a moment later, that same hand was wrapped around her neck, and in one movement she felt him yank her up by that same grip as he pushed himself onto his feet with the other. "You made it clear that you wanted more. And I'm going to pay you for more. But if you back out now, you lose the extra money. Understand? You'll only get the original payment."   
  
Dorothea, thrown off balance on the inside, even as he kept her perfectly secure physically, could only choke out a "Y-yes!"    
  
And then he threw her, by the neck, at the bed.    
  
She hit it ass-first, bouncing from the edge until she sprawled on her back in the center of a bed suitably large for a nobleman and his -- wife? Lover? Whore? Whatever woman he decided to take into his bed.    
  
A moment after that, Dorothea heard him climb onto the bed, felt it shake as he moved atop her. "There are things I like that you might not be used to," he said, and Dorothea shuddered as she felt one of his large hands splay across her belly before roaming up to squeeze one of her breasts. "There's only one that's negotiable." There was a pause, and she felt his bulk settle atop her. To her shock, she could feel his cock already hard again as it pressed wetly against her panties. He was already using his other hand to yank her skirt up higher. Out of the way.    
  
He leaned in close, and for a moment she was utterly terrified that he would try to kiss her. Dorothea had no idea what she liked or what she wanted, not anymore, but she knew that that was too far for her.    
  
But instead, he brought his lips to her ear, and, hot and low, she heard him whisper a series of words that shredded her resolve completely, left her too stunned to speak: "I like it when my girls call me 'Daddy,'" he said, completely unashamed, one hand still squeezing her breast.   
  
All she could do was let out a hot, ragged gasp, unable to stop the shudder that took her from head to toe. It was just too much. This entire situation, this nightmare that she had walked to, it was too much for her, and to make everything that much worse, his erect shaft was utterly flush with Dorothea’s panties, which he ripped away with one hand a moment later, the garment giving way to his superior strength.    
  
He could see, and feel, precisely how wet she was.    
  
Dorothea’s father let out a laugh against her ear. “That turns you on, doesn’t it? Tell me if I’m wrong. Tell me I’m depraved.”   
  
The resulting silence was like claws gouging away at Dorothea’s very soul. The songstress couldn’t say so much as a single word against the man atop her. She couldn’t contradict him in any way at all.   
  
And the only defense she could have mustered against him, the only way she could have stopped any of this in its tracks, was utterly forbidden to her...and would only have painted her as even more of a deviant slut than he already thought she was.    
  
At least he didn’t know that he actually was her father.    
  
A moment later, his cock was lined up with her entrance -- she could feel his cock head against her lips, parting them ever so slightly. She should have been horrified at that, should have been disgusted, but all she could feel was the same heightened thrill she had in the moment she had taken his cock in her mouth.    
  
"Beg me for it," he said simply, his hand moving up from her chest to instead wrap around her neck. She could feel his breath against her, knew in spite of not being able to see a thing that he was unbearably close to her. Would he try to kiss her? That feeling of intense wrongness persisted, but it didn't make her any less desperate for what was about to happen.   
  
"P-please," she could only barely get out. Not just because of the pressure he began to exert on her throat -- he wasn't choking her, not quite, but he was pushing down -- but because it felt so, so much worse to actively court this. If she was only surrendering to his will, it was bad enough, but to ask for it --   
  
But then he made it worse. "Please, what?" he said, his hand pushing down more firmly. Now he nearly was choking her, but that only heightened the thrill. She couldn't help it, the way her mind immediately went to the question: Had he done this to her mother, too?   
  
She whined it out, unable to help the surge of shame at how pathetic she sounded. Like some mewling girl. Some complaining child. "Please, oh please f-fuck me."   
  
"Remember who you're asking," the man said, his cock pushing just firmly enough that he was almost, almost pushing inside her outright, and it was wrong, he was her father, oh Goddess he was her father and she wanted his cock so badly --   
  
"P-please, fuck me, now, please, Daddy -- !"   
  
In an instant, he was inside her, his cock driving into Dorothea without any hesitation or mercy. She let out a scream of pleasure at it, her lips parting for the desperate keen that escaped her throat as he slammed forward and took her, and he was her father, and his cock was in her, and she felt muscles she hadn't even known she had squeezing around him as she came at that first thrust, came and released tension she'd been holding since the moment she'd realized who he was.    
  
Dorothea Arnault had wanted this since that moment.   
  
He let out a growl as he bottomed out inside her, his cock hitting her deep and his hand only easing up slightly on her throat. She felt like he was going to push her right into the mattress just by his sheer weight. She felt like he was going to break her. Dorothea let out something like a sob on the heels of that first scream, and to her horror, she realized that there was no way, no way at all that he didn't know how quickly she'd cum.    
  
"You really have been a bad little slut, haven't you?" The man -- no, her father. Her father. She focused on that, zeroed in on it instead of trying not to think about it. Her father pulled back only enough to make his next slam down into her feel that much more impactful. "I called you a good girl, but you aren't, are you?" With the hand not on her neck, he gripped her hip and used it for leverage, holding it tight, gripping it one-handed as he began to slam into her with a brutal, quick rhythm that left her moaning. "Are you?!"   
  
"N-no, D-daddy! No, Daddy!" She shook her head. She wanted to buck her hips, wanted to throw herself into what was happening, into the way her father was fucking her needy pussy, but his grip on her hip was so firm that she couldn't manage. He was holding her that securely. Keeping Dorothea in her place. Keeping his slutty whore of a daughter in her place beneath him. Dorothea felt like she was adrift within her own mind, felt like she was losing control, losing her internal framework. She had hated this man so desperately from a distance for so long that her mind couldn't quite handle where things had ended up. Everything had been upended.   
  
“If...if you aren’t, then tell your Daddy what you are!” he said, after slowing for only a moment. Maybe matters were getting away with him too. Dorothea didn’t know, couldn’t even see him. And she didn’t know if that was helping her anymore or not. Maybe if she had been able to see the man driving into her, if she had been able to glimpse the person rawing her cunt with such ferocity, it would have kept her human in her mind.   
  
Instead, in the darkness, with only her other senses to keep her anchored, her imagination was set adrift. The person fucking her didn’t have to be a person. He could be the monster she had always imagined, the shadowy presence who had cast her mother out and abandoned her daughter. He could fit that grotesque anti-ideal more perfectly than a visible person could.   
  
Dorothea couldn’t quite think about all of it. Any of it. She could only think beneath the surface, deep down, beneath the chaos and insanity playing out in her conscious mind.    
  
“I’m a b-bad girl! I’m, I’m a naughty, f-fucking slut! Oh! Oh, yes! Daddy yes, yes ynnh nnh!” Dorothea couldn’t even get her last words out, could only whine out her pleasure as he drove deeper into her, hit her in ways that no one ever had. Dorothea bit her lip to keep from screaming. She felt like she was going to cum again. Again, already, when hardly any time at all had passed. Had it? Was she losing her grip this badly? “I, I’m a bad girl and I need to b-b-be punished!”   
  
For several seconds after that, it seemed that all the man could focus on was fucking her. He didn't speak, didn't squeeze Dorothea's throat or, worst of all, lean in so dangerously close again. Instead, he just rutted into her, slamming into her with deep strokes that never seemed to grow any less weighty and powerful as time passed. She didn't know where his stamina came from, but for a long series of moments, she felt like he was some kind of machine.    
  
And then, finally, as with every stroke he seemed to redefine pleasure for her, he said it: "How should I punish you, whore? Should Daddy ground you, or should he throw you out on the street where bad, slutty gutter trash like you belongs?"   
  
It should have been like a stab to the gut. Dorothea should have been beyond disgusted. It should have cleared her mind, reminded her of just what she'd lost because of this sick bastard.    
  
She had heard him talk about what he'd done to her and her mother. He remembered them. Remembered her, even if he didn't realize who he was fucking. And for him, it was something to spice things up in the bedroom with. He thought it was funny, and maybe a little hot.   
  
It should have reminded her of her hate for this man.   
  
Instead, all she could feel was a surge of heat and excitement, of delicious wrongness that made her eyes roll back behind her blindfold. "W-, whah?" she got out, struggling to cover up how hard it had hit her -- and how -- with false confusion.   
  
His hand settled down on her throat. "Do you want me to throw you out with my spare change because of how bad you've been, or do you want me to keep you, and let you have another chance at being a good girl?" He squeezed her throat harder, and not once, not anywhere in his little speech, did he slow down or pull out.    
  
The words spilled out of Dorothea. She couldn't stop them. Couldn't stop herself. Couldn't hold her mind and body together. "P-please let me stay, Daddy!" she cried out as her father railed her in the bed he might very well have impregnated her mother in. "Don't cast me out! Please keep me, d-d-Daddy! DADDY!"    
  
Dorothea Arnault came, her cunt squeezing around her father's shaft like a vice. Her mind felt like it was dissolving, like it was burning away with the inner fire that was threatening to consume her. Dorothea felt like she was about to die. At the very least, she felt like anything she’d ever had that resembled pride or self-respect was most certainly gone. How could it remain, given how completely she’d just betrayed herself? Betrayed her mother?   
  
And then even that bare-bones, fragile remnant of self-awareness was scoured away in the heat of her father cumming inside her.   
  
He didn’t warn her. He didn’t even stop fucking her, for the first couple of seconds. Only after a few spurts had erupted from his cock did he finally slam into her with any kind of finality, still gripping her hip with one hand and holding her securely to his body. Dorothea let out a ragged, hot, confused moan as her father’s seed pumped into her, filling her. More of it. More than her already fragile mind could comprehend.   
  
He’d cum inside her. Was...she couldn’t think. Was this a safe day? She felt like she was in danger. She felt a rising terror, one that soared frighteningly high, but that couldn’t quite escape being drowned out by the pleasure overtaking her entire body. For the few moments that it lasted, Dorothea couldn’t help but wonder. Did her father do this to all of his whores?    
  
(Dorothea had, at least for now, lost any interest in pretending that she wasn’t one.)   
  
He hadn’t talked to her about this. About whether he wanted her to pull out. About whether she regularly took any of the herbs supplied by healers or the church to those who needed them for one reason or another, or who simply didn’t want children.    
  
For as long as that short, fragmentary stretch of lucidity lasted, Dorothea wondered, with a kind of dawning horror, just how many half-brothers and half-sisters she had in this city. Wondered if her father had ever taken any better care of any of them, instead of letting them struggle to survive on the streets.   
  
And then, after a few moments of slow recovery, her father’s ragged breathing finally betraying that his stamina wasn’t unlimited after all, she felt him seize her by the shoulder, flip her over onto her chest, and line his cock back up with her thoroughly lubricated entrance.   
  
And then Dorothea didn’t think at all for a long time.   
  
O O O   
  
In her room -- one of many for the girls who regularly performed at the opera house -- Dorothea stared at herself in the mirror, with the afternoon light issuing into the room through the opened curtain. She’d opened the window partway when she had returned home in the morning, just before daybreak, not caring for the cold at the time. She’d been desperate to let the air out after only a few moments in the room. She’d felt like she could smell him on her, like she could practically taste the scent of his cum in the air around her -- and she had showered before leaving his mansion.   
  
Now, in the light of day, Dorothea looked at herself.   
  
She looked...pretty much the same way she had the previous day.    
  
No matter how she felt -- no matter how certain she was that she could still feel the press of his hands on her skin, a morning’s sleep later and hours after the fact -- she could not actually see any big, obvious palmprints marking her as a whore. Her eyes looked much as they always did.    
  
On the cabinet beneath the mirror was a finely wrought leather purse, and while she hadn’t counted through the money, it certainly weighed enough to suggest that the man had been honest about doubling the already exorbitant pay he had offered her.    
  
She had taken the necessary herbs on waking, and knew that she wouldn’t have to worry on that score.    
  
...Everything was fine.   
  
She continued to look at herself in the mirror.    
  
Then, she closed her eyes.   
  
Almost instantly, she could practically feel the memory. Her father rutting with her like they were animals, fucking her from behind and squeezing her ass nearly hard enough to bruise. Then, with her cunny still oozing from second and third helpings of his seed, he had taken her in the ass. It hadn’t been her first time, but the Goddess knew that it had certainly been the most intense.    
  
Hours. Hours. He had only stopped when he, himself, was exhausted. When she had been too spent and cock-drunk to cry out for her Daddy any longer, he had just gone back to using her mouth.    
  
She opened her eyes, and was still Dorothea Arnault.   
  
“When is your next show?” he had asked as he escorted her to one of his carriages, where one of his men was waiting to return her to the opera house. And she hand answered him honestly, unthinkingly, that it was that night.    
  
“I’ll be there,” he had said.   
  
It had been an invitation.    
  
She felt as though she ought to be too sick to perform. That she ought to be too exhausted to manage to sing. But Dorothea felt fine. She felt more than fine. Dorothea felt amazing.   
  
“I won’t go with him,” she said to the mirror, to her own reflection. “I won’t,” she repeated, making her lips firm. Trying to steady herself.    
  
But her heart was beating faster nonetheless.

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, please follow me [at my twitter](https://twitter.com/cathedralvelvet), where you can learn more about my work!


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